


regress

by arsenouselation



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, In denial Levi is in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenouselation/pseuds/arsenouselation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/ rē gres / is when she says, "Your touch hurts."</p>
            </blockquote>





	regress

**Author's Note:**

> Of course. As usual, nothing I ever write makes sense. Supposed to be long-ish but published as is.

She means it when she says, "Your touch hurts."

Levi ignores her, continues to tear off the remains of her maneuver gear roughly. His fingers can be deft, careful when he needs to, but right now he chooses them to be unkind. He unhinges the mechanism from her back support almost violently, dumps it on the table in front of her. Standing close to her back, Levi hears Hange inhale sharply and he feels the small resultant suction in his own chest.

The wire propeller comes away next. In a way, this is how Levi reprimands her, the stupid shit. Each harsh movement represents the repercussion of Hange's stupidity without actually aggravating the wound on her back.

Levi jerks loose the bloodied buckle on her thighs; this is for diving into a titan shithole without Moblit to pull her back. Now the ones on her hips, this—Levi instinctively swallows; the tips of his fingers ghosting over cloth— _this_ is for allowing her maneuver wires to get caught. Hange's hip jerks towards him with the motion. Levi sucks in a quiet breath and holds it. Still holding his breath he reaches (very methodically now, he tells himself) around Hange's torso, arms firmly avoiding any sort of contact. He unbuckles the belt on her navel, his hands feeling rubbery all of a sudden. This is for a thousand other things Levi chooses not say.

"It's a mistake," she grunts, tremulous, "asking you for help."

Levi scoffs. "Your own fault. Don't move, shitglasses."

To her credit, Hange finds it in herself to keep still, finds comfort by gripping the edge of the table instead. Levi feels almost rectified seeing her knuckles whiten in the effort. _Serves you right, idiot._ But the ordeal is not nearly enough; with one, two, three final tugs—Levi makes sure to pull two notches harder—Hange is jerked free of her gear.

"Levi!" Hange cries, staggering forward.

Levi has to actively try not think on how _that_ sounded. Feeling slightly lightheaded, he recovers himself quickly by issuing a command, "Sit."

"Why, because you can't reach me?" the laugh comes out raspy from Hange's throat. Without waiting for a coherent reply, she lugs her heavy limbs to a chair, dragging the discarded harnesses that has piled by her ankles.

Her back turned to him, Levi has to suppress the urge to strangle the crazy, unhygienic four-eyes. Instead, he steps forward and takes hold of the hem of her bloody shirt. For a moment, he senses Hange sit straighter, tense. A breathless second.

He opts for the standard crassness with:

"When was the last time you washed this disgusting— _when was the last time you took a bath?_ "

Hange sighs, as if from relief. Her voice is light, "Take a guess."

"You filthy rat," he mutters, hitting the back of her head.

Unsure of ( _not_ himself, _of fucking course not_ ) her wound's scope, he rips the cloth right in the middle of her back slowly. Blood and grit mingle in his hands. Her shirt has fucking dirt on it. It got under his fingernails; Levi will have to pick them clean, scrub them raw. But that would have to be later.

The open air hits the laceration on her back—her entire fucking back, if that's even possible—and Hange hisses. She arches her back, the candlelight spilling unto the sinews of her torso. Levi does not look any longer than necessary, a strange thirst dusting his throat.

The shorn pieces of cloth and belts pile at her feet. Levi nudges her heel so he can toe them off to the side carefully.

The Corporal takes the sponge from the basin beside them, squeezes out the lukewarm water above her nape. In a small cascade, the water rolls down Hange's skin, dousing the wound before dripping to the wooden floor. _Tch._ He'll have to clean that too. Hange grips the table, hand trembling. Averting his eyes, Levi wipes the residue around the laceration, the force of his hand harder than he intends.

"Levi," Hange whines in that grating way that only Hange can, "It hurts."

" _Your_ stupidity hurts."

The question lingers between them, unvoiced. _Whom_?

Levi rinses, wipes, repeats.


End file.
